The Knave of Hearts
by AlphaBanana
Summary: The story of how the greatest thief, liar and womaniser the world had ever seen came to be. A series of one-shots covering Silk's life before the start of the Belgariad. *NOT CHRONOLOGICAL* Don't really understand the rating system, but there will probably be mild cussing and ALLUSIONS to general fun times, hence the T rating? Anyway, I'll warn you lovely people as and when :)
1. On the Prowl (Age c 19)

Prince Kheldar, heir to the throne of Drasnia, was very, _very_ drunk.

He was also incredibly engrossed in his latest conquest: a very pretty barmaid in Rheon's finest, the The Open Flagon, who just so happened to have a very valuable necklace. The fact that she had next to no depth to her character didn't faze Kheldar in the slightest – if anything, it spurred him on, as she would not realise her folly until the morning…by which point he would be long gone.

Let it not be said, however, that the Crown Prince of Drasnia was in any way, shape or form an attractive lover. From a distance, he looked like a twelve-year-old (with his diminutive frame and lack of physical prowess), rather than the eighteen-year-old that he was. Moreover, Kheldar was commonly regarded as looking more like a rodent than a human, thanks to his long, sharply-pointed nose: not the best impression to give the people of Drasnia, especially seeing as, if something horrible happened to his Uncle Rhodar before he managed to find a wife forgiving enough to put up with his excesses, Kheldar would be left with around 1 ½ million hungry, needy people to lead. Oh, the joy.

Despite these…difficulties, Kheldar was determined to make something of himself – something that didn't rest on his status as a member of the Drasnian royal family. So, as many Drasnians are wont to do, he turned to thievery. This was the chase, the Great Game, something that his sanity (or, rather, what remained of it) depended on. The gains were worthless in the face of that addictive rush that purloining the possessions of rich and poor alike gave him – forget the opium dens of Boktor; thievery was the drug of choice for this particular Drasnian.

This 'drug', unfortunately, had its side-effects: one of Kheldar's trademarks was that his distinctive nose would twitch whenever he was on the cusp of achieving something even remotely interesting…such as _that necklace_. Every so often, the maid would stop in her breathtakingly stupid tale to stare inquisitively at Kheldar's nose, before (thankfully) thinking no more of it and continuing to bore him to tears. It wouldn't be so much of an annoyance (in fact, if Kheldar hadn't been so focussed on the necklace, he would have been hard-pressed not to laugh), but the fact was that his father had paid out a ludicrous amount of Gold Bulls for a muscle trainer, so that this ridiculous tell of his would be suppressed. Therefore it would seem that, despite its allure, money can't buy everything.

_Well, things could be worse. I could look like Drosta._ Drosta Lek Thun was Kheldar's 'colleague' for lack of a better term, since he was Prince of Gar Og Nadrak, which lay on the Eastern border of Drasnia. He was also a miserly, pockmarked lecher, even at the tender age of seventeen, and spent much of his time conducting his…business in disreputable taverns in the suburbs of Yar Nadrak. _We're not as different as I might like to believe, then…_

That, however, was a matter for Prince Kheldar to deal with. His alter ego, Ambar of Kotu, was centre-stage now, and _gods damn it, he wanted that necklace._ There was only one thing for it – a charm offensive. By which, he intended to bed the wench as soon as possible.

"Why don't we…take this someplace else, love?" Kheldar's voice reached her ears distantly, and it appeared that for some moments, the poor girl simply forgot to breathe. After recovering from this, she nodded hurriedly, and moved to prepare a room for the two of them.

As the door shut on Kheldar and his prey, he had time for one smug, little smile – the smirk of a hunter who was not altogether satisfied with his spoils – before the barmaid threw her arms around his neck and tried to do what no other woman had yet managed to do: claim him. Kheldar smiled a deceptively sweet smile.

_It'll be mine within the hour._


	2. Kheldar and Barak (Age c 6)

**Age c. 6 years old**

_**Kheldar and Barak**_

It was an epic meeting of the two cataclysmic forces in the Universe. As Brand, the Child of Light, and Kal Torak, the Child of Dark, met upon the battlefield of Vo Mimbre, the power created through their meeting charged the air, seeped into the very soil. There would be tales forever more, which swore that no settlement must ever be built on such a momentous place – the power had the potential to corrupt any that walked on it, save a chosen few. Naturally, these tales were disregarded, as the chosen ones of Chaldan were wont to do, but caution was always preached to the younger generation.

In a world much closer to reality, however, two small boys (one much smaller than the other) were having their third miniature quarrel in as many minutes. Anyone watching would have simply said that 'boys will be boys', before returning to 'adult' themes, such as feeding a household of 50, or ensuring that the city's water supply would last for the winter, but for the young combatants, the fight was deadly serious. The subject?

"But Barak, _I'm_ Brand – you promised!" The young prince Kheldar whined, as he was forced to put on the 'Torak Helm' – one of Barak's mother's best silver plates, crudely mutilated by Barak to provide an eye hole, and two smaller holes to accommodate a leather strap – by the bigger, older boy.

"But Weasel," Barak answered with a well-practiced, wide-eyed innocence, even resorting to his nickname for the diminutive Drasnian to gain some trust, "you pulled the short straw – you _have_ to be Torak. Them's the rules." He smirked at the frustration of the smaller boy, and turned to put the finishing touches to the 'Brand Shield' – his mother's best platter – adding a leather strap to the back. However, the minute Barak turned his back, Kheldar hit him across the back of his knees, and in the space of a second, he was sprawled out on the floor.

"Liar! The straws were both the same length – now _give me the shield_!" The last four words of Kheldar's outburst were punctuated with heavy blows to Barak's face and back with his grandfather's oak walking stick (which, although he could barely lift it, would leave Barak with several ugly bruises for some time yet).

"Belar's beard, would you calm down?! It's rude for a prince to hit people!" Barak pleaded, all the while shielding his head from some of Kheldar's more wayward blows.

"Not true! My daddy says that princes should show their worth in battle before they're allowed to be king. Anyway, if it's rude to hit people, why does your daddy do it? All Chereks hit people, all the time! Stupid!"

It was at some point in this tirade that Barak snapped.

"How _dare_ you! At least we fight, instead of your lot, who steal and cheat, and are…cowards!" Barak spluttered, before doing something that he had done many times before, but in a whole different way.

He tugged on Kheldar's nose.

It had been possible to say that, whilst the Drasnian prince's nose was not abnormally large, it was…prominent. Now, however, Barak's actions changed everything. The older boy's pulling was so fierce, that he broke much of the cartilage in Kheldar's nose – the elderly healer didn't arrive in time to completely rectify the damage.


End file.
